


Sinking

by run_sure_footed



Series: After Kipo [1]
Category: Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts (Cartoon)
Genre: Blood, Break Up, Brief suicidal thoughts, Fear, Grief, M/M, Mourning, Paranoia, Whump, no actual death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 18:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30008772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/run_sure_footed/pseuds/run_sure_footed
Summary: Jamack's tie has been cut. Everything's falling apart.
Relationships: Harris/Jamack (Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts)
Series: After Kipo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2207481
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	Sinking

“Jamack?”

Harris stiffened, fighting the urge to turn and look at the Mod Frog who’d spoken. He forced air into his lungs, forced his hands to relax, his fingers to unknot. Forced himself to pretend he didn’t care, that he wasn’t listening. He daubed his cloth in the shoe polish. Spread it on the toe of his Chelsea boot. Accidentally got a huge glob and smeared it everywhere—fuck! He was calm. He was fine.

“Yeah, that unlucky SOB’s dead. Newton Wolves got him.”

Harris dropped the tin of polish with a loud clang, freezing when everyone turned their attention to him. He wanted to leave right then so he could process this in private, or at least make sure no one saw anything but mild amusement on his face, if that, but he couldn’t. It would look all the more suspicious if he left now. So he stayed and waited and laughed with the others and felt the last little trickle of hope in his life die, and _yes_ , he _knew_ he was being dramatic, but wasn’t that what Jamack would have wanted?

He finished polishing his backup boots. Picked them up. Returned the polish to its place. Carried the shoes to his burrow, which was near the outside of the Pond they were slowly restoring. Set the boots neatly in place.

And then he couldn’t breathe, he could just feel the burrow’s earthen walls closing in on him, suffocating him, and he was off and running before the sentry could do more than call his name as he passed.

He thought he was running wildly, directionlessly, but he found himself in front of Jamack’s ‘office.’

Oh.

Well, he was here, and it was as good a place as any to be alone. He climbed the tree, the way Jamack had convinced him to a lifetime ago. Hopped in through one of the many broken windows. Just the feel of the water on his skin was soothing, even after everything that had happened. He closed his eyes and tried… Well, not thinking about Jamack was impossible, especially in this place, but thinking about him was equally impossible. Tried not to think about anything. Yeah. That was it.

Something wasn’t right. Well, _nothing_ was right, but something in the room was physically wrong. Harris opened his eyes.

The office was filled with the rushing sound of the waterfall, as it always was. But Jamack’s ‘safe,’ as he called it—really it was just a hole in the wall with a painting in front of it—was open, and there was blood on the discarded painting, blood on the wall, blood on the doorframe.

“Fuck.” He’d thought this place was inaccessible enough that it wouldn’t be picked over by scavengers, but there were mutes who could get everywhere—not to mention humans.

The blood looked fresh, though the dampness of the room meant it wouldn’t dry out as quickly as it would have in the city below. Harris approached the ‘safe’ cautiously, in case the thief was still in there. He realized he hadn’t brought a weapon with him. Fuck!

He leaned out, peering into the hole… No one. There was more blood inside, smeared on the walls and over many of the items Jamack had considered precious enough to hide. To Harris’ surprise, everything was still there. Why would someone break in, find a hidden stash, and then leave? It didn’t make sense.

Ah. There it was. Jamack’s first-aid kit was gone. With all the blood, that made sense. But why not take the other useful and entertaining items hidden here?

Where did the bloody marks go from here? The trail grew fainter outside the ‘office’ itself, washed away by the water in places, forcing Harris to backtrack to the point of irritation, but he finally traced it to a room two floors down and at the other end of the hall. The intruder, if they were still here, must be inside.

He stepped to the side and fired his tongue at the door, back pressed against the crumbling wall while he waited to see if anyone would come rushing out.

Nothing, no sound, no movement. It was quieter down here, without the giant open windows. It would have been too dark to see for a human, but Harris could see the visible lily pads in full colour. There was more blood on them, the first-aid kit itself, and Jamack, curled up on one of the larger lily pads, one arm dangling off in the water. The water around him was pinkish. His suit was torn, stained in places, and the Frog underneath seemed to be in similar shape.

Without a thought for any traps, Harris splashed through the thigh-deep water like a lumbering elephant until he reached the lily pad with Jamack’s still form on it. Jamack didn’t move. Of course he didn’t! He was a hallucination! Jamack—the _real_ Jamack—was dead. He was losing it. Coming completely undone.

He reached out to touch the cuff of ‘Jamack’s’ coat. It was real, or at least solid beneath his fingertips.

Jamack came awake abruptly, rolling off the lily pad onto his feet. His injured leg gave out and he collapsed with a hiss, landing on his ass in the cold water, still moving backwards. At first it hadn’t mattered who had touched him, who was here. He had no allies, no friends, _no one_. Unless it was Kipo—a confusing and terrible thought—he was in danger.

It wasn’t Kipo. A blur of colour, green, black and white, registered first. _Mod Frog_. Enemy.

Jamack froze, looking up, eyes focusing. _Harris._ He could feel himself shaking, hear his heart pounding louder than the waterfall outside.

After escaping the Newton Wolves, he’d fallen from the window ledge and down a steep slope. His leg had already been hurt where one of the Wolves had bitten him, and now it was difficult to put his weight on it. His suit had taken the worst of it, but he could feel rivulets of blood running down his skin beneath his sleeves. His hands and the back of his head had some terrible scrapes and cuts, but he knew if he could find somewhere safe, he could heal. He had intended to bandage himself properly once he got here, but instead he’d collapsed onto the lily pad and given into his exhaustion.

Harris blinked. “J-Jamack?”

The familiarity of Harris, his voice, his face, it drove a dagger through Jamack. He’d spent the last—few days? A week? He wasn’t sure—fighting for survival, frantically making nonsense plans to get himself back into the Mod Frogs. Or even better, allying himself with Scarlemagne and having enough power to push out Sartori! But seeing Harris now felt like a realization.

He wasn’t a Mod Frog anymore.

Harris was his enemy.

Instinctively, Jamack let out a loud, threatening croak. He stumbled up onto his feet again, moving in the direction of the door. The Mod Frog wasn’t armed, but still, it would be so easy for Harris to kill him. Jamack was in poor shape, and Harris had killed Frogs in the past.

The weight of the split between their worlds felt suffocating. The two of them had never been so at odds before, not even during their worst fights. All Jamack could think about was escape. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t confront Harris. He didn’t want to know where his loyalties might land. He didn’t want to die, but even more than that, _he didn’t want to die like this._

Harris backed up at the sound of the croak, almost unconsciously reacting to the threat of it, but he forced himself to focus again. Jamack was limping, and he looked half dead. He was…going for the door. Harris shifted to intercept him, arms out. “Jamack, it’s me. It’s Harris,” he said, very softly. Perhaps the softest and gentlest he’d ever spoken.

Harris moved closer and Jamack croaked again, part-threat, part-fear. His heart pounded even faster, his chest heaving. He didn’t have anything left in him. He couldn’t fight, he couldn’t even act unafraid, unhurt. He doubted he could talk his way out of this. But…if he got to the flooded stairwell, he could make it. Harris couldn’t swim, couldn’t follow him. Even if he was too weak to really fight the current right now, even if he got swept away, it’d be worth it for the escape. He could survive it.

Jamack choked out a few words, “Just let me go.”

“What? No! Jamack, it’s me. I can… I can help you.” Harris could see Jamack’s shifty eyes, rapidly flicking in every direction. “Don’t do anything crazy.” He lowered his arms a little, hands still raised. “I’m not going to hurt you. I…I thought you were dead. They said…”

Jamack was breathing too fast, and at first his laughter just sounded like terror, or pain. Harris was blocking the door now. He was so _close,_ so close to escape, but he couldn’t run on his injured leg, definitely couldn’t hop. Harris wasn’t going to kill him, but his offer to help just felt like twisting the knife. He froze where he was, undecided. There was no way out but the door. “You can’t _help_ ,” he forced the words out through his teeth.

“I can do something!” Harris snapped. This was better. This was the way they were supposed to be. No. Jamack wasn’t the same. _He_ wasn’t the same, either, but he wasn’t about to collapse from exhaustion and blood loss. “What do you need?” he asked, forcing his voice to soften again. It still had an edge to it, but he couldn’t help that.

“Let me _go_!” Jamack shouted, his voice hoarse, breaking. His usual act, his easy lies, were stripped away. He felt raw and exposed. His lies hadn’t gotten him out of danger when the Newton Wolves had hunted him down and they wouldn’t help here, either. Harris knew him too well even if he could muster that kind of control. _“Please.”_ He was reduced to begging.

Harris shook his head slowly. His eyes narrowed. “I thought you were _dead_ , you idiot!” he yelled, taking half a step towards Jamack.

Jamack flinched away, wincing as he was forced to put weight on his injured leg again. He was just so tired. Everything hurt and now he had to do _this._ The relief of knowing that Harris’ loyalty to him would keep him alive had turned into a sick feeling. Of all the Frogs Jamack did not want to see right now, Harris was at the top of the list. He fought it, but to his utter shame, tears welled in his eyes. “Please,” he whispered. “I’m done. We’re done.”

“I-I can get you food? Medicine?” Harris implored.

Jamack couldn’t even look at him. “It’s over.” It felt strange to be the one doing the breaking up, for once. It would have been funny if it wasn’t heartbreaking.

Harris blinked again, his eyes stinging. “What are you talking about?” he asked, so softly he could barely hear himself over the sound of the waterfall.

Jamack hadn’t expected this conversation to turn into him breaking up with Harris. Especially since it was Harris who had, just a few weeks ago, broken up with him. Maybe this would prompt Harris to attack him, but Jamack couldn’t stop now. “We’re over.”

“You…you’re breaking up with me?” Harris let out a choked laugh, shaking his head wildly. No. That couldn’t be it. He must have misunderstood. Must have. Or Jamack was just being overdramatic, as usual.

The longer Jamack stood still, the more pink stained the water around him. “I guess I am,” he said softly.

“You can’t be serious!” Harris shouted. “You need me! Now more than ever! You’re supposed to be _dead_ , Jamack.”

No matter how hurt and frightened Jamack was right now, his fear _of_ Harris didn’t compare to his lifelong fear _for_ Harris. They’d grown up together. They’d been… Well, not friends. Mod Frogs were raised to be selfish. It was a mute-eat-mute world, after all. Mod Frogs didn’t have _friends_. They could never openly have been mates either, even when their relationship wasn’t in tatters. But Jamack had always been soft-hearted, especially for Harris.

Jamack knew if he was weak enough to ask Harris for help now, he couldn’t protect him. Mod Frogs wouldn’t take that kind of betrayal well.

He couldn’t do it. “I might as well be.”

“What are you saying?” Harris had been so sure he’d lost Jamack—twice—and he didn’t think he could handle a third time. “You could stay here. I could bring you supplies,” he said in a rush.

“We’re dead to each other, Harris. We’re enemies.” His voice was low. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to survive even the next few days, let alone if he’d be able to enact any of his unlikely plans and throw his lot in with Scarlemagne. But there was no way he was pulling Harris into the death trap his life had become.

“Shut up! Shut up, that’s not true!” Harris wanted to throw something at him, but his hands were empty. He splashed water at him instead.

Again, Jamack flinched as though expecting something worse. “I won’t come back here again,” he murmured, almost more to himself than Harris. This strange, suspended, half-flooded building had been a sanctuary for him, but it wasn’t meant for him anymore. He hadn’t been able to come up with a better plan than ‘get medical supplies’ after he’d escaped the Newton Wolves. He wanted to avoid Mod Frog territory after this.

“Fine. Don’t leave,” Harris snapped, crossing his arms.

Jamack was too tired to draw up any anger. If Harris wasn’t going to hurt him, then he wasn’t going to stop him either. He limped towards him, heading for the door.

Harris’ face lit up with joy and surprise before he could rein in his expression. He couldn’t believe that had worked!

Jamack pushed Harris aside, stumbled past the door, to the stairwell and down into the water below.

“ _No!”_ Harris ran after him, but even with an injured leg Jamack wouldn’t let himself be stopped. He watched Jamack disappear into the water, leaving a thin trail of blood in the dark water behind him. He thought about climbing down the tree outside and trying to intercept Jamack at the bottom of the waterfall, but… No. He’d already lost. Besides, Jamack had already made it clear he didn’t want him.

Feeling blind and deaf, as though he was the injured one, Harris stumbled back up to Jamack’s office. He sat on his desk, remembering all the times they’d fucked here, talked late into the night about their hopes and dreams. How could that be gone forever?

Harris considered simply throwing himself out the window, but he knew from experience that he could fall from a great height without being seriously injured. With his luck, he’d just break a leg or be completely unscathed.

He knew he should get back to the pond before he was missed, but he couldn’t summon the energy to care, never mind move. Blinking back tears, he curled up in a miserable huddle in his red-eyed tree frog sleep position. The one Jamack had taught him about. He was in full view of the open windows, but he didn’t care. Let something try and eat him.


End file.
